If I Fell in Love With You
by Culinary Racism
Summary: Grindelwald and Dumbledore love each other to death. Problem? Nope, just Grindelwald was never defeated because who defeats the man they love? How will this non-death affect Harry?


**Hello everybody! This here is my first story ever! Yay! So basically, Gellert Grindelwald and Albus Dumbledore hooked up and Grindelwald was never killed. This story follows what would happen in Harry's life if this occurred. This chapter will start out with Grindelwald and Dumbledore and explain their story, but I promise you Harry will be featured in the rest of the story. Also, this chapter offers "glimpses," if you will, into the lives of Grindelwald and Dumbledore. So if anything gets confusing, you can just ask me, and I'll clear it right up for you, okay? Okay! So here we go!**

**Warnings: Slash now and in the future and then in the past. You will be surrounded by slashiness, mwahahaha! There is no escape, so if this bothers you, kindly take yourself and leave. Oh, and I may change the rating depending on certain things. We shall see.**

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter books and assorted goods really have nothing to do with me at all. Remember, a no sue is a good sue! Er, or something to that effect...right, anyway, moving on...**

**That's really it, I think, so I hope you enjoy my story! Constructive criticism and/or general comments would be helpful. Thanks!**

* * *

If he strained his mind just the perfect amount, not too far to the left or too far to the right, Gellert Grindelwald could remember being a child. He could remember when he was green, still half-created, still believing that his dreams were rights, that the world was disposed to act in humankind's best interests, and that falling and dying were only for quitters. He lived on the innocent assurance that he alone, of all the people ever born, had a special arrangement whereby he would be allowed to stay green forever.

It was selfish, maybe, but it's what he believed. And it scared him, knowing the way he was is so far from the way he is now. He had never felt so old and jaded. He remembered when he first saw a picture of the world. It was a mixture of green and blue. Those were nice colors, complimented each other well, easy on the eyes. But now all he saw was grey.

Where there were once deep blue seas and flowing aquamarine rivers and babbling brooks there was now only a deep basin of grey matter and dry riverbeds and he heard no babbling, just screaming. He supposed it had all started with his father. For how quickly his father had joined the past tense!

He could have almost marveled at it, if he was disposed to doing so. One moment the man was alive and well and kissing his wife and son goodbye and wincing at his sunburn as he pulled his sweatshirt over his back, and the next is "Did you know him?" and "He was a good man" and "They're going to bury him in Germany, that's where his family was from, you know." Suddenly his father was no longer there, no longer actively affecting others. His father was affecting others with his absence instead.

_Birth_, Gellert thought, _was not really like that at all_. Birth was _gradual. _Giving birth took hours and the pregnancy took months. Death was the opposite. Death was decisive, death was quick and sudden and irreversible. One was dead when the heart stopped beating for good, when the chest stopped rising and falling, when the eyes stopped responding to light. Death was harsh and obvious, and after the first few hours when Gellert thought they could still save him, bring him back, life-changing near-death experience he could laugh about a little and all that, well, after those few hours his mother had given up and let them pull the plug. And she had sat in shock for a while on the plastic chair and then they both went home, and when Gellert woke up he still expected his father to be there and then he remembered that he was dead.

But it took a long time until Gellert really realized that he was gone forever. He knew it on the surface, and he knew that it was going to hit him for real sometime, but nevertheless when it happened he reeled from the blow, he pushed it back, he tried to make it more gradual like birth. He did what you were meant to at first, wore the black and acted somber and even cried dutifully somehow, but not with those wracking sobs that hurt his chest that came later, though he tried to stop them. Denial was less painful, denial made more sense. Birth was gradual, thus death should be. So his father wasn't really dead.

The gravestone said "Rest in Peace" but that just made Gellert mad. Rest in peace? Why rest in peace? The man lived in peace! Why rest in peace? His life was not _war._ His life was great. He was happy. Why not take someone miserable instead and bring _him_ back? Rest in peace, well, maybe he is, but peace isn't what he wanted. What he wanted was to live. He was a man with a love of life in him. Take somebody else, that kid who's always whining about wanting to just leave this world, that old man who's blind and degenerating, someone not in the prime of his life. What was he being punished for? He didn't want to die. Why did he die?

And he just couldn't wrap his mind around it, because there was no reason. "God's eternal plan," they said, but what was that? Why did God's eternal plan involve him dying just then? Gellert couldn't see his father's death affecting something major. It made those who knew him sad, sure, but it didn't change the world, not in a huge way. It was senseless and stupid and why would God do something like that? Didn't Nietzsche say that God was dead? Maybe God is dead, that makes more sense than the death. But the driver didn't mean for it to happen, of course, he was broken up about it, and why should there be an accident? In a sane world accidents do not happen. It's not that they weren't careful, both of them. It was just bad luck, really. Awful luck.

_But that's not fair_, Gellert thought. Luck? Since when does luck determine someone's life? It happened often really, he guessed, what with war and bombs and all, it's all luck of the draw, but somehow that logic doesn't work when it comes to accidents. Accidents just don't make sense at all. Accidents should stop existing.

And when he looked at the grave it just made him mad because the death did not make any sense and he wanted his father to come back and it wasn't fair and he didn't understand it and _it wasn't fair_. Gellert had to move on, of course, and he managed okay, but thinking about it was despairing a little because clearly he just didn't get the way this world worked, because his father's death didn't fit anywhere in his comprehension of the world. It was a bad blow.

"Look, I leave you alone for a few minutes and you're already drinking." His mother's horrible nagging voice cut into his reverie.

"Drunk. I'm drunk." Gellert was leaning heavily on his trunk, where he had obtained the firewhiskey that was now in his hand. Trunk of life, he called it. All of his belongings lay strewn about the floor in a haphazard manner, ready to be removed from Durmstrang. He had been expelled, and not soon enough, in Gellert's opinion.

"You do realize that this is the very thing that got you expelled?" His mother's voice was perfect for nagging. Just the right amount of edge and whine. It cut through the fog the liquor had created over his brain. But Gellert wanted to keep that fog. That was why he had started drinking in the first place.

"Do you know, mother, why women don't run the world?" Gellert asked quite nastily. His mother should have just left him alone.

His mother was not stupid, though, and avoided the question as long as she could. Finally, resigned, she asked, "Why?"

"Because all of the countries would nag each other to death!" And with that, Gellert was dragging his stuff out the door to the Portkey that had been set up for them. It was a special occasion, after all.

However, he noticed something strange. There were two Portkies, instead of one. His alcohol-riddled mind wondered if it was seeing double. Gellert wondered that too.

"If you had let me explain, you wouldn't be questioning your sanity right now." The voice of his mother came up behind him.

Growling under his breath, Gellert turned to his mother. "What is this?"

"I've decided to send you abroad. I obviously can't handle you anymore and frankly I'm tired of your selfishness. This Portkey will take you to your great-aunt Bathilda's house in Godric's Hollow. I'm sure you remember her."

"She's kind of hard to forget," Gellert mumbled to himself, visions of cat food-flavored jello and cataracts dancing in his head. But, truthfully, he could not be happier. He would even go so far as to say he was dancing with joy. On the inside, of course. Godric's Hollow, the resting place of Ignotus Peverell and possibly the only place he could uncover the legend of the Deathly Hallows.

He played the sullen and self-pitying child to his mother. Let her think she's won. "But, mother, great-aunt Bathilda is a nutcase. The whole time I'll be wasting away with nothing to do."

His mother seemed pleased with herself; she thought she had outsmarted Gellert. "That's too bad; my word is final, young man. Now get going before it gets dark."

Indeed, the sun was already beginning to set over Durmstrang; the symbolic meaning was not lost on Gellert. With a perfectly acted resigned sigh and shuffling of the feet, he took hold of the Portkey that would change his life forever. He felt the pull behind his navel, and he was off in a swirling array of colors. He landed like a cat, on all fours, and stood up and brushed himself off.

His great-aunt Bathilda, who was the definition of mad genius, ran out of her house to greet him. "Oh my little poppet, come to see his great-aunt again. It's been so long and now you're all grown up!" She gathered Gellert up into her arms and squeezed and squeezed. If Gellert was watching this from the sidelines, he would assume that this mad woman was juicing her only great-nephew. Really, the sacrifices he makes for world domination.

* * *

He was sidling down the Occult aisle, checking out titles as he went. He stopped at the end of the aisle and tried to figure out how the books were arranged. A yellowed sheet of paper had been taped to the wall; spidery writing declared that books were organized by subject and publication date.

"Not a big fan of alphabetizing, I guess."

Stifling a squeak, Albus turned to find a man smiling at him. He couldn't have been more than sixteen, and wore a perfectly tailored charcoal-gray suit. He stood at about five-eleven, Albus guessed. His smile shifted to apology. "Didn't mean to frighten you."

"No, no. I just didn't expect anybody else back here. I didn't hear your footsteps."

"Well, it's carpeted."

Albus looked down and flushed.

"Yeah, I guess you're right. I've got a real eye for detail, huh?"

He grinned, and Albus found himself staring. He was attractive in some way that went beyond the chiseled jaw and smoothly styled, shoulder-length blonde hair. His eyes were a chocolate-brown that pulled Albus in deeper. He seemed out of place in the musty bookstore.

He cocked his head and reached out a hand. "That book. You weren't going to buy it, were you?" He had a boyish, persuasive smile on his face.

Albus looked down at the Occult book in his hands. "This? No, I tripped over it. I just thought I'd put it back on the shelf." _Mental note: I'm an idiot and should have an independent party speak for me, _Albus thought.

He took the book out of Albus' hand, but continued to stare at him. Albus felt his temperature rise heatedly.

"Well, I'm glad you weren't going to get this. I've been looking for a copy for years."

He had an accent of some kind, noticeable when he curled his tongue around "r" and "s." He had the kind of voice that made anything sound overtly sexual. Albus grinned like an idiot, his empty hands rubbing the stiff denim of his Muggle jeans, searching for something to fidget with. He hadn't felt attracted to anyone like this before. He could practically taste the things he wanted to do to him.

"Congratulations on finding it. But I can't say that a seventy-year-old book on sorcery is something I'd expect you to be looking for."

The mystery man reached out to stroke a strand of hair away from Albus' cheek. For some reason Albus didn't flinch at the invasion of his space. The movement brought a hint of this mystery man's cologne to him instead, spicy and rich, a scent that made his knees weak. Albus closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He was interrupted by a muffled curse from the stranger.

"Well," the stranger said, "I've got to go, but I'll see you around, eh?" He lifted Albus' hand and kissed it. "And just so I know if this is worth it or not, do I get your name?"

It was Albus' turn to smile. "My name is Albus. Albus Dumbledore. And yours?"

"Gellert. Gellert Grindelwald." He warmed Albus with a knowing smile and walked away down the aisle.

* * *

Gellert had fallen many times. Out of trees, over curbs, on rocks, in love, out of love, off of swings, in drunken stupors, in public, in the dark.

He had found people that made him trip over himself, made him look like he had never learned to walk at all. He had found himself dealing with love many times. In love and at love and over love and out of love. It was like a string he pulled behind him and weaved throughout all the experiences in his life. In and out, in and out. Under bridges and over mountains and around in circles, spinning. Plaiting a lifetime of experiences around this string.

For as many people as he had caught in this string; for all the people that he had knitted and tied up with this string—there were many more that were never included.

Maybe it was the man behind the counter at the Honeydukes store. Big brown eyes and thick eyebrows. Handsome and charming. Gellert could have wound him up right then and there, pulled him in and strung him up. He didn't. He couldn't tell you why, either.

Or maybe the boy in his defense class who was constantly asking him out for butterbeer.

Or the girl in Durmstrang who knew many things about him long before he had even dreamed of figuring them out. Who wanted to pull him in close and wrap him up in her own string but he pushed her away.

There was the guy from the Muggle dance club—pushed. The girl working as an intern at the Ministry, when he had been there for his expulsion trial—pushed. The boy at the bar all those Friday nights—pushed.

Sometimes he hadn't even wanted to push those people away. But it was like he walked around with his arms always extended, waiting for prey. Sometimes he caught people in his arms and wrapped them up as if they were an insect on his spider web. Other times he used those arms for pushing, for shoving. Just push them away. Away and far enough away that he didn't have to worry about it hurting him any.

He was already predisposed to pushing when he met Albus. He was used to it. He hadn't used the string in years except for places, objects, memories, pieces. No humans in the web anymore, okay?

But there he was, all intelligent and slightly barmy and wonderful. An equal, something he had thirsted for. His arms were no match when it came to pushing away beauty. So he didn't push this time. He didn't even try.He wound Albus up in string and handed him the end. Here is Gellert's string, give it a tug. Unravel this scarf, this blanket, this life, this heart he had been making. Unravel it and leave the string dangling because it doesn't have to matter anymore. He didn't have to use it anymore.

And Albus did.

* * *

It had started out simple enough.

"Have you ever wanted to do something so great that everyone will remember your name? Eternal glory and all that rot?" Gellert was staring at Albus' ceiling, which was plain except for the light blue paint that covered the walls. Albus turned to look at him from his spot on the desk, fingers stained with ink from his homework. It was so stimulating to find an equal in another person. It was like the sun shining through the clouds on a rainy day, an instant path away from darkness. And Albus liked it.

"Yes," he replied, glancing at Gellert to gauge what he was thinking. "Why?"

Gellert smiled. "That's the Albus I know, always asking why."

Albus blushed. But it receded as soon as Gellert laid his eyes on him, face serious and tone husky and warm.

"Will you go with me?" Gellert's eyes begged release that Albus didn't know how to give.

"Where?"

"Wherever I go. Please, Albus. Promise me."

Albus knew all about promises. He knew that his brother made one to his mother to take care of their sister and protect her. He knew his father promised his mother he would be back someday. And he knew, somewhere deep inside of him, that these promises weren't kept. He made a vow, then, to always keep his promises, especially to Gellert, no matter what.

So, with his resolve hardened and a face set in stone he told Gellert, "I promise. As long as we're together."

And when relief broke out like a dam on Gellert's face, making it glow with all its worth, Albus thought he understood why people made such ardent promises, if just to see their beloved make that face.

But soon those words weren't enough. Their debates became more and more philosophical and focused more on action, rather than feelings.

"Mankind is probably the most mysterious species on our planet. A mystery of open questions. Who are we? Where do we come from? Where are we going? How do we know what we believe to know? Why do we believe anything at all? Innumerable questions looking for an answer, an answer which will raise the next question and the following answer will raise a following question and so on and so forth. But in the end, isn't it always the same question and always the same answer?"

Gellert felt like he had just had the most marvelous epiphany on earth. It takes a lot for man to discover how truly little they know. Sure, they could reword their questions and answers to their heart's content, but it would always be the same. It made so much sense just then, that Gellert felt like running around Godric's Hollow and shaking everybody he came across until they could see reason, see the things he saw.

The truth at that moment was as clear as the red in Albus' hair. Because that was really the only thing he believed in. He believed in Albus.

And Albus himself didn't want to believe it because it seemed so hopeless. Why continue living if we can never know the answers? But Gellert said it so well and so convincingly and in his heart of hearts Albus knew it was true. He knew because he felt it too, the same way that Gellert did, that all humans did. That innate desire to just know. He often dreamed about heaven, now. And instead of a place filled with laughter and flowers, it was a place filled with answers. To all the questions he ever wanted to know.

And when he voiced this opinion to Gellert, he saw mirrored in his eyes what he saw in his everyday. And it made him feel less alone.

"We're better than them Albus, you know?" Gellert whispered fiercely.

"I know, Gellert, but maybe everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end, right?" Albus knew at once he had sad the wrong thing when Gellert's eyes flashed.

"That's a load of bullocks and you know it. Nothing is ever okay. Things always end in an unresolved blah of nothingness. People make up happy endings for themselves so they can go on living disillusioned to the truth. If people realized things weren't alright they would probably go insane and/or kill themselves."

"What are you talking about? I mean—"

"You know what I'm talking about! The world! War! I'm not so naive or simplistic to believe we can eliminate war. We're not going to change human nature any time soon. It isn't that we aren't rational. We are rational. But reason has limits. There's a quote from T.S. Eliot that I just love: "We shall not cease from exploring, and at the end of our exploration, we will return to where we started, and know the place for the first time." Now that's in a sense where I'm beginning to be."

Albus pondered that for a while. But Gellert continued. "Why were relations with Muggles conducted so badly from the beginning? And you have to admit that cost lives. And my theory is because wizards are sentimentalists. Because they have such rose-colored glasses about Muggles that they think as soon as we show ourselves to their world, letting them into our schools and exposing them to wizardkind, they'd be going, "Magic! Wizards!" And that's why we need to separate ourselves from them because they would never give us their blessing."

* * *

Aberforth hated Albus.

He was just so bloody smart. Albus knew everything better than him and whenever he got in an argument with him he couldn't say anything without getting it wrong.

He was sick of it.

Stop being smart.

Aberforth wanted him to stop it.

Now.

Aberforth had the hierarchy of smartness. Yeah, that's right. He drew up a table and everything and Albus was at the very top. See? He had a crown and a throne and one of the legs on your stick man representative is slightly short than the other. Underneath is that kid that left last term, he should cross her off. There's that guy Albus likes, there's the girl who was good at Potions, that one, that stick guy with the funny hair is that Muggleborn kid who never talks.

But Albus was at the top. See that patch, that blue pen in the shape of a scribbled box? That's where Aberforth thought he was. Yeah, he wasn't on the throne, he was right next to it though, he was closer than anyone else.

And then Albus came along. And ruined it.

He ruined Aberforth. He had thought he was smart. He was so wrong. Now he's not even on the hierarchy. He's less. He's that loser kid who drew up the hierarchy.

He was less than below Albus.

Go away. He wanted to be sad by himself. Because if Albus was here he'd beat Aberforth at that, as well.

* * *

It was utterly absurd the way it started. As with all things, it started with a flare of temper.

"Gellert, get your feet off of the table." Aberforth was getting seriously annoyed at this point. He was asking politely, after all. And he was trying to his summer homework.

"No." Gellert grinned that roguish grin of his and kept his feet on the table.

Albus sighed. "Really, you two."

"Listen you moronic idiot—" Aberforth started.

"No, I will not," Gellert interrupted. "And if you're going to insult someone you should really get a less pansy-arse comeback."

Aberforth turned red in the face. Albus covered his face with his hands to hide his laughter. "You—"

But Gellert was into it now. And he, as always, went straight to the heart of the matter and stabbed Aberforth with all of his insecurities. "I think...no, I am positive...that you are the most unattractive man I have ever met in my entire life. You know, in the short time we've been together, you have demonstrated every loathsome characteristic of the male personality and even discovered a few new ones. You are physically repulsive, intellectually retarded, you're morally reprehensible, vulgar, insensitive, selfish, and stupid, you have no taste, a lousy sense of humor and you smell. You're not even interesting enough to make me sick."

"That's it!" Aberforth reached for his wand and it was already too late. Curses began flying in every direction, colors mingling together, Albus was sure he would see fuzzy black dots for weeks. And then, with the timing of a well-rehearsed opera, Ariana stepped into the kitchen just as a curse from Gellert and a curse from Aberforth collided, heading straight for her.

It was a direct hit and there was no chance for anyone to do anything. And Albus, Gellert, and Aberforth could only watch, helpless, as Ariana sank to the ground, eyes glazed. And they knew.

* * *

"Ariana."

He sat in the hospital bed, the whiteness surrounding him, the pain like a gaping hole in his chest. It ached. It ached the way a cold would, but this wasn't some common virus. This was a souvenir.

He had been entrusted a job to do and he had failed, miserably. Any other man would have killed himself by now. But Aberforth Dumbledore was not just any man. So, instead, he swallowed the frustration and self-loathing so evident within him and exhaled heavily. He would have to move on from this.

He had sacrificed everything for his sister, but he would keep his dignity. There would be no tantrums, no anger; there would be nothing but his duty, beholden to him alone. Him, the other offspring, not brilliant like Albus or beautiful like dear Ariana, but he was loyal at least, more than he could say for his snake of a brother. He had kept his promise to his mother to take care of Ariana. How long had he kept himself going on just his duty? Food and sleep were secondary. He had no personal life to speak of. Just his duty.

He was going to drop out of Hogwarts for her, for his promise. Even when their father went to Azkaban and Ariana killed their mother, he had kept going when no one else would. The pain in his chest pulsed.

He squeezed his eyes shut and blocked out the meticulously clean room. But his eyes, even shut tight, betrayed him. Visions of red streaked across his vision. Horrible, hateful words spewed from lips, words that could never be forgiven. And in the midst of it all stood Ariana, crying for it all to stop. But he couldn't stop; even just seeing the face of Albus was enough for his blood to boil.

Negligence. Abandonment. Ugly words. True, but ugly. Truth often was, anyway. Stunners, death threats, Arian's lifeless body cold on the ground. The uncertainty. Who had struck the final blow? There was no way of knowing, no closure to move on. Even now Aberforth wasn't sure if he was entirely blameless.

His chest throbbed again. He wanted to rip his heart out. He still wasn't sure what caused the immense pain, whether it was Ariana's death or the Stunner Gellert Grindelwald had hit him with. That's why he was here now, in St. Mungo's, for "further observation."

He wanted Ariana back. What a selfish thought. Their father, Percival, had sought vengeance on those Muggles who had attacked Ariana out of foolish terror. Man was such a repulsive being, both wizards and Muggles. Those Muggles had taken her innocence and his father had taken their lives. A fair trade, according to Aberforth. But his father got sent to Azkaban, anyway.

He remembered seeing Albus and Gellert together, happy and carefree. That was when a foreign feeling began to grow inside of him. It wasn't jealousy, he was familiar with that. It wasn't until he learned Albus was in love with Gellert that he realized what it was: fury. White-hot, searing fury. Fury so fierce that it made him see red. And that was how the fight began and ended.

Protecting Ariana had been his responsibility and his alone. His duty and his burden. His right. But now she was gone he could see the truth.

Ariana had never needed him. He had needed Ariana. And now that he no longer had an Ariana to wait for, to wait on, to protect, and watch over, and serve…it didn't matter if it wasn't his fault. It didn't matter if he still had a duty. None of it mattered. Without Ariana, none of it mattered. He felt as though he'd cut out half of himself—hollow, weary. Alone. He felt like a traitor.

"I promised mother!"

The whisper sounded small in the white room, and guilt gnawed at him, twisting inside him and making his stomach churn. He had killed his precious person.

"I promised mother!"

The words were lies. There was truth in them, but they were still just something he told himself so that he didn't have to face life. The ice on his heart so he didn't hate his sister. He was a fool.

It was had been his duty. It was now his excuse.

* * *

Albus let himself in through the kitchen. The air inside was heavy with the odor of too-ripe fruit. Or furniture polish? He went upstairs to his bedroom, laying his wand on the dresser, and opening the window, slightly.

He turned on the shower and stripped down, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor. He got in, adjusting the water to as hot as he could stand it. He did his best thinking in here. He needs to think now, needs the release it gives. The heat relaxed the clots inside the brain, made his juices flow, and he leaned with his forehead against the wall, hands behind his back, as the warmth spread downward from his neck to his shoulders, his buttocks, the back of his knees.

He closed his eyes; saw Aberforth, a confident, sly gorilla riding a unicycle in a red felt jacket, eating a banana. Aberforth smiled and waved. Gorillas don't ride unicycles, though, everyone knew that. The only one Albus ever saw sat inside a huge cage at the zoo. He rocked back and forth, sticking his tongue out at the world. Making judgments. He had pondered the primitive intelligence of this gesture: _People laugh but maybe he knows something_, Albus had thought. _We wouldn't laugh if he gave us the finger, would we?_

Guilt was not a punishment, Gellert said. Guilt was simply guilt. He remembered a run-in he and Aberforth had with a shop clerk in Muggle London over a pair of socks. The clerk said they had not paid for the lurid purple socks that Albus just had to have, wouldn't believe them when they protested that they had indeed paid for them. He had threatened to call their father, even though he wouldn't have been able to and expose them to the world as liars and thieves. "Go ahead," Aberforth had said. "My dad knows me and trusts me. Why should I care what you think?"

But Albus had cared desperately and had felt, even though he knew he was innocent, guilty and shamed by it. Why?

Because it was always easier to believe himself capable of evil than to accept evil in others. But that didn't make a sense. The shop clerk wasn't evil, just mistaken. Bad judgment doesn't make you evil—can he only see those two opposites—good and evil? Innocence and guilt? Was it necessary to believe others guilty in order for him to be proved innocent? There was a way through this, an opening, if he could only find it. He stood very still, letting the water sluice over his shoulders and river into the creases of his stomach.

For some inexplicable reason he was left out of this. Passed over. His guilt and shame ignored. It must have been too monstrous to mention. His crime, his part in it, and so he had to suffer alone. But what for? There was no evil there, after all. Nobody's fault. It just happened, that's all. Not so frightening, was it? To believe all three of them innocent.

His sinuses were packed with a spongy material. Tears leaked out from in between his eyelashes. Resigned, he let them come as he soaped himself up carefully: his arms, his shoulder, and his back. He stood and let the water run over his head, washing his hair. When he was finished, he toweled himself dry. Tears of grief fell this time, not shame, and it wasn't fair, it just wasn't fair. But no, life was not fair, or sane, or good, or anything, it just was.

He hung up the towel in the bathroom and turned off the light. He put on clean underwear, picking up his dirty clothes. All the while the blistering, slick liquid leaked from his eyelids and so he continued to blink it back, to wipe it away.

He climbed into bed and cleanliness surrounded him, its smell cool and fresh. He rolled onto his back and, without a sound, without a though, he slept.

When he woke up, Gellert was standing there, looking strung-out and exhausted. When he saw that Albus was awake, he immediately ran to him. "Oh, Albus, I'm so sorry, please forgive me! I swear it I didn't see her, I didn't see her! Please don't hate me!"

And Albus knew that Gellert was sincere because he had never once heard him plead and beg like that before, voice raw and desperate like a wounded animal. "Oh, Gellert," Albus whispered. "It wasn't your fault. It wasn't anybody's fault. And I could never hate you."

Gellert turned tear-filled, red-rimmed eyes to Albus and whimpered, before throwing himself into his arms. And they both cried, and tried to accept the things they had done. It took a while, but eventually they made peace with it, as they must. It still lay on their hearts, though, like dust swept under the rug, lurking and ready to come out when the time was right to remind them that they were still human. At least that's what they hoped.

* * *

"You know, when my father died, a thousand people said a thousand stupid things to me and I just wanted one of them to give me a reason not to die. And then you came, and you were perfect and smart and charming, and I remember thinking that this wasn't about a reason not to die, it was a reason to live. All because of you. I'm so lucky to have met you. You're like nobody else in this world because when I'm with you I feel like I'm split in two. One half is on fire with passion and love and sweaty touches and the other half is like water—perfectly content with wherever this is going. There's no one else in the world that makes me feel like that." Albus rolled over on his side, turning to where Gellert was sprawled across the bed on his stomach.

There are tears in his eyes. "Albus, will you marry me?"

"Oh Gellert, you know I'd die just to hold you and stay with you. Of course I will!"

* * *

Albus had just turned the covers down on his side of the bed and was about to get in for a good night's sleep when he noticed something different.

"What the heck is that?" he exclaimed.

"What the heck is what?" his husband answered from the bathroom.

_Gosh, it still sounds so amazing…husband_, Albus thought. But that unfamiliar thing on the bed pulled him out of his happy thought and into a much more terrifying one.

Albus responded by trying to describe the alien thing that had been placed where his once favorite pillow had been located for the past 7 years of his life. True, his old sleeping companion was well past its prime in that it really didn't look like a pillow anymore. It had become a blob of lumpy material that had long lost its original white color and had taken him years of punching, pushing and stretching to get into the perfect shape for his head to rest on. He didn't think the pillowcase had ever changed either since the pillow was purchased over half a decade ago. It had been laundered once a week to the point where the color print flowers on the outside remained only as ghostly outlines.

As ugly as it was, it was still something that had been with him for a quarter of his life, ever since his marriage began. The bed had changed, all of his other belongings had changed, his house had changed, his dreams had changed, even his body had changed, but the pillow had been a primary constant in his life, always there for him when he needed it, until now!

His old pillow was gone and something new was about to become part of my life. The new pillow was too damn white. In fact, it was so white it hurt to look at it. It was also an odd, an alien shape, a perfect square. His old pillow had started out rectangular and, as the years passed, had grown longer and wider and flatter: one of the many proofs of the law that matter can't be created or destroyed, it can only be changed. The new pillow was also very big and thick, to the point that Albus wondered if he would break his neck if he ever tried to put his head on it. The way it stood up on the mattress he figured if he laid on his back his head would be tilted so far forward his chin would be driven into his chest. If he decided to try the thing out on his side he thought it would stretch his neck to the point where he could become a carnival act called Giraffe Man. If he ever slept on his stomach he knew his head would probably snap right off. He then looked toward the bathroom and asked Gellert a question he now feared asking.

"What did you do with my old pillow?"

Gellert stated, matter-of-factly, that he had disposed of it in a place Albus would never be able to find it. Albus immediately began his search, scanning the bedroom for possible clues as to where the hiding place for his old bed-buddy could be. Gellert told me to relax, to not be afraid to try something new. He said the pillow he had bought me was a technological marvel. It was made of a new type of polymer material that molded itself to your head. It had a high side and a low side so that the person whose head was resting on it could decide which was best.

Gellert finally came out of the bathroom and told Albus it was time to get into bed. He shut out the lights and got into his side of the bed, the left side, assuming that Albus would do the same. After a couple of minutes Albus heard him ask where he was. He was still standing in the dark at the side of the bed staring apprehensively at the strange new thing that was so white it actually glowed in the dark.

"Get into bed!" Gellert snapped, jerking him out of his trance.

Carefully, Albus got into bed and slowly lowered his head onto what was supposed to be the greatest pillow ever created in the history of bedtime. At first it wasn't so bad. His head sat on top of the pillow and seemed to float in space, instead of sinking, like his head did with his old pillow. He didn't have to beat up the new pillow to give it some volume and it was no longer necessary to put his right arm under it so that all the blood stopped flowing into that arm and he woke up a couple of hours later thinking he was having a heart attack. _Was Gellert right again?_ Albus thought. _Would he discover that his old pillow was the cause of his not being able to get a full night's sleep?_

Then, to his alarm, his head started to descend into the pillow. He could actually feel himself sinking deeper and deeper into what he knew must be the kind of genetically-engineered fibers that threatened to replace all natural fibers in the world. As his head descended into the Pillow of Doom, his imagination kicked into overdrive.

Albus imagined his head going deeper into the pillow until it reached his ears and started to ooze its way into his head and then into his brain. Deeper and deeper into the pillow his head would descend until it started to envelop the front of his face. He imagined it flowing over his cheeks and his chin until it found his nose, at which time it would flow into his sinus cavities and down his throat until it filled his esophagus and then his stomach. At this point he would try to cry out for help but couldn't because the monster pillow had filled his mouth and he was unable to make a sound. He saw himself with his arms and legs thrashing wildly as his head was devoured by this newest of technological marvels, turning him into some dreadful mutant creature called Pillowhead. He would not allow this to happen to him! He was Albus Dumbledore, dammit! He reached behind his head, grabbed the pillow and hurled it across the room, scattering my Gellert's collection of parchment on the dressing table. Gellert jumped out of bed, turned on the light and asked Albus what on earth was wrong with him. Then he noticed Albus was covered in a cold sweat and his eyes were wide and staring.

"I was turning into Pillowhead," he said.

Muttering, Gellert went to the bottom drawer of his dresser and retrieved Albus' old friend. He knew Albus too well to hide it too far away. Thrilled that it still existed, he pushed, pulled, and punched his faithful pillow into some sort of shape, threw his soon-to-be-aching arm underneath and immediately fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.


End file.
